


Say Anything

by megyal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-24
Updated: 2007-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has a crush on Harry and tells him in French.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Anything

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://the-eros-affair.livejournal.com/profile)[**the_eros_affair**](http://the-eros-affair.livejournal.com/), for the cheque scenario _I promise to dirty talk you in French [Draco to Harry]_.
> 
>  **Beta'd by:** [](http://mirrorwakes.livejournal.com/profile)[**mirrorwakes**](http://mirrorwakes.livejournal.com/). French help provided by [](http://slightly-frayed.livejournal.com/profile)[**slightly_frayed**](http://slightly-frayed.livejournal.com/) , [](http://lire-casander.livejournal.com/profile)[**lire_casander**](http://lire-casander.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://matchsticks-p.livejournal.com/profile)[**matchsticks_p**](http://matchsticks-p.livejournal.com/).

Draco pushes open the door to the Three Broomsticks, skilfully avoiding Madame Rosemerta's shrewd gaze. He had given her a stiff apology so long ago, but he still feels slightly uncomfortable coming here. A conscience is such a heavy thing. He turns his head from one side to the other, looking for a familiar dark messy head and spots Potter sitting at a secluded table with a bottle by his elbow. Draco freezes as another head, flame-red in colour, bends down near Potter's, and he fumes a little; when he’d warily accepted this invitation to have a drink, Potter had said _nothing_ about having it with the Weasel.

He is just about to spin on his heel and make his way back to Hogwarts when Potter turns his head expectantly and pins him with those eyes; shards of jade glinting behind his glasses. Potter raises his hand and beckons to him; Draco straightens his back, marching forward with a confidence that he does not feel.

"Professor Potter," he says through tight lips and the corners of Potter's own mouth twitch a little. "Weasley."

Weasley is looking up at him with barely concealed surprise and suspicion and Draco can sympathize; Potter pulls out a chair for him and he sits down stiffly, looking up at the new waitress that Madame Rosemerta had hired to help out as she appears beside him, quill at the ready. The waitress gives him a flirtatious wink as she notes his order and twirls away, her heavy perfume left hanging in the air over them, stifling; Potter's little smile is fixed on his face as he moves his wand slightly; a light breeze shifts the heavy smell away.

"Thanks," Weasley says gratefully, putting his bottle to his mouth and taking a long pull.

"I hate that perfume," Potter replies in a dry tone and favours Draco with a wider smile that starts up a traitorous tidal wave within Draco's stomach. "I thought you wouldn't show up, Professor Malfoy."

Draco, who had spent hours in the dungeons agonising over _why_ Harry had asked him and _if_ he should really go, simply nods sagely, holding his breath as the waitress deposits his drink with a " 'ere y'are, love". Another subtle _Ventus_ charm from Harry and the eau d'Awful is sent away, Potter's smile sly on his face.

Draco had not known that Potter was capable of being sly. He had despaired upon Potter's placement as the Defence lecturer at Hogwarts because he had dealt with Potter for _seven years_ when they were students, three of which were spent in the throes of a sort of aching desire that left him feeling desperate and half-drowned, and that had manifested itself as destructive behaviour; even through that whole dark fiasco with the cupboard and Dumbledore (here, his mind skittered away from the memory of that man, from that tower, from that night), a lot of his thoughts had been bent towards Potter. He had tried to be chilly to Potter, to keep the man at arm's length, so that those silly sets of emotions that had plagued him during school wouldn't crop up again, but Potter had insisted on being charming and well-adjusted and possessing an easy wit, so much so that Draco had been dragged kicking and screaming back into that hateful, breathless feeling.

He really hates it; and Potter is _available_ , that's probably the worst part. He had heard (really saw it in the _Prophet_ ) that Potter had been in a long relationship, live-in and all, with a Seeker when he had been gallivanting around in Europe after the War. The relationship had ended on disgustingly civil terms; Potter had returned to Britain and almost instantly appeared at Hogwarts' doorstep. When he had sat at the Head table at the Sorting ceremony, it had been one of those days Draco had heard about: where it's simultaneously good and bad, but because Draco was special, his good/bad Potter-day had more bad in it than anything else, because Potter had managed to find the empty seat right beside him and sat there smelling wonderful.

"You call each other 'Professor'?" Weasley now asks, interrupting Draco's desperate train of thought. "That sounds really weird."

"It sounds professional," Potter tells Weasley with a teasing tone and Draco feels envious at the way he elbows Weasley companionably. "You wouldn't have the first idea about _professional_."

"I work for the Ministry," Weasley agrees, mock-mournfully. "You're probably right." Draco laughs and covers it up with a deep cough; they both look at him, Weasley with that same expression of doubtful surprise and Harry with genuine concern.

"All right, there?" He smiles slightly at Draco's nod. "So. It's alright if we stick to Potter and Malfoy, then?"

"It's fine," Draco says, not trying to sound too warm. He's not sure if he should try so hard, because Potter's little smile fades away and he raises his eyebrows briefly, shrugs slightly and drinks from his bottle. "I mean. If it's fine for you, it's fine for me."

"It's fine for me," Potter says immediately and Weasley is looking back and forth between them. "As long as it's fine for you. But you can call me Harry, too."

"Wow, this conversation is scintillating," Weasley puts in, raising his hand for another Butterbeer. "I mean, I'm getting goose bumps from the rush to my IQ."

"And here I thought you didn't even know the _meaning_ of the word _scintillating_ ," Draco says, quite unnecessarily, underneath his breath. He shakes his head at himself. His therapist had told him to make an effort to _be nice_ and while Draco had been horrified in that session (he had told Pansy off for that, how dare she use that on him, _really_ ), he had really tried to make an effort. Sometimes. Potter is looking at him, wide-eyed and then folds his lips in as he shifts his gaze to Weasley.

Apparently, he is holding back laughter.

"What?" Draco says waspishly, disconcerted when Harry's shoulders begin to shake. "Is... are you _laughing_ at me, _Harry_?"

"He's laughing at _me_ ," Weasley replies sourly, looking as if he is trying to step on Harry's foot under the table. "I learned the word two hours ago."

"You know something?" Harry says, looking at Draco with a glimmer of friendly fondness that makes him want to flee. "Some things, they never change."

"Pity, that," Draco drawls, and takes a long, bracing drink.

***

They go through quite a few bottles each, Draco trying to drink away his discomfort with being out-numbered by Gryffindors and only half-listening to Harry and Weasley's semi-drunk, rambling conversation (while concentrating on _not_ looking at Harry's bottom lip, slightly damp from their drinks); he hears the word _French_ , blinks and brings his mind around to what they're talking about.

"What was that?" he asks, sitting up a little. "That last part? About French?"

"I was just saying," Weasley says slowly, "That French. Is sexy."

"It's not." Harry's chuckle is low and comfortable. "It's kind of annoying."

"Everything they say," Weasley says with a flourish, ignoring Harry, "is like liquid gold… like verbal _velvet_. They could be saying ' _how much for the de-gnoming powder_ ' and it would sound sexy. Remember Fleur?"

"Who, your sister-in-law? Nope, don't remember her at all." Harry tries to drink and snickers as Weasley digs an elbow in his side, his eyes twinkling. Draco stifles a groan.

"She'd talk, and I'd be high all day."

"And this had _nothing_ to do with her Veela-allure, right?"

"I speak French," Draco puts in before Weasley can retort and wonders how his mouth had formed those words without express written consent of his brain. "Fluently."

Weasley pounces.

"Say something. Anything. Apparently, Harry hasn't heard the right accent or something, so go on, Malfoy." Weasley peers at him and then leans over to whisper loudly in Harry's ear. "I'll bet you'll get off on it, too."

Harry smiles wickedly and quickly composes his face into one of polite blankness. Draco stares at him as he leans forward, putting one elbow on the surface of the small, round table and propping his chin in his hand, waiting for Draco to prove or disprove the claims of the Weasel.

Draco sighs and thinks for a little, trying to find something to say.

"Err… _Je m'appelle Draco Malfoy_ ," Draco says in a monotone. " _I am twenty-nine years old_."

"Oh, come on." Weasley sounds exasperated as Harry chuckles. "Come on, Malfoy, do better than that. Please? Wait, I can't _believe_ I'm begging _Malfoy_ , Harry, can you imagine—"

" _Je te déteste_ ," Draco cuts in suddenly, mainly to stop Weasley from any more talking; he probably speaks with a little more venom than is advisable while staring at Harry, because the dark-haired man recoils a little and blinks. " _I hate you. I hate how you make me feel and I hate that you don't know. I hate that you were the one who fought for everyone and you still act like a normal person. I hate that all I need is to smell you or see your stupid hair and I get hard._ "

There is a tiny frown forming between Harry's eyebrows and Draco inhales, forging ahead.

" _I want to press you against a wall and see what your mouth tastes like; if you taste like those Chocolate Frogs you always eat. I want to see if your eyes are really that green all the way through. God, I hate your hair, but I want to touch it_." He pauses, thinking. " _Fine. I don't really hate it_."

"See?" Weasley stage-whispers. "I mean, come on, Harry. It's _Malfoy_ and see how good it sounds? I need to go home and have sex."

"Ok, that was too much information, Ron," Harry says quickly, sitting back and running a hand through his hair. Draco sneers lightly, because Harry's hair becomes even more messy and lovely and he really can't take it. Harry gives Weasley a weak grin, his eyes fixing on Draco's face in confusion and Draco suddenly feels a strange power steal over him, heady and a little terrifying, because here is some sort of outlet and _Harry will never know_.

  


***

"You told him how you felt?" Pansy says in a mixture of delight and disbelief in his next therapy session, her square-framed spectacles slipping down her nose. "You... and Weasley helped?"

"I can't believe it either," Draco says contentedly, lying down on the brown leather sofa. "I feel so light. I told the students today, in French, that I wanted to kill most of them and I felt so free."

"I... maybe you shouldn't tell _them_ , Draco, but telling _Potter_ is good. I mean, you've only been lusting over him for forever, so this is a step forward."

"Wonderful, I'm finally getting my money's worth out of you."

"You think one day you'll tell him in _English_?"

"Why? Potter and I are better off when I lust from afar, alright?" Draco moves irritably in the sofa. Pansy gives him a long look over her glasses and then writes on her notepad. "Let me tell you, I'll be sure to find some fault with him if we ever, Merlin forbid, get _involved_."

"Such as?" Pansy twists the point of her quill into the parchment as she places a full-stop at the end of one of her mysterious notes. Draco is sure that she has written _nothing_ about him and his session.

"Oh, maybe I'll hate how he eats his peas. Or how he coughs in his sleep. Or how his eyes probably cross when he doesn't have those glasses on."

"Or," Pansy says with all the low drama she can muster, "You and he could agree. You know, with each other."

"Doubt that."

"How will you know if you don't take a chance?" She sighs, putting the notepad on the low glass table, looking at him with a pitying expression that makes Draco want to snarl. "You used to take so many chances, Draco. You were the one we all took our cues from--"

"And it nearly got us all fucked, ok?" Draco stares at the ceiling. "People... persons _died_. My family suffered because I took chances that I shouldn't have taken. I don't like talking about this."

"It's therapy. Talking is kind of required."

" _Va te faire_ ," Draco says darkly and Pansy laughs.

  


***

Draco understands what people mean by getting addicted. He can't help saying things in French to Potter now, because that bemused expression on Harry's face is delicious.

" _J'adore tes doigts_ ," he says casually at dinner when Harry sits beside him, picking up his knife and fork. " _They're long and beautiful. I want them on me. In me_."

"What was that?" Harry asks; his expression wary. He flicks his gaze suddenly to the Hufflepuff table and sends an impressively fierce frown to Jason Diggleworth in Fourth Year. Draco thinks that Diggleworth was wrongly sorted. He is a little too mischievous for his own good; Harry returns his attention to Draco. "I mean, I think that I should--"

"Nothing, nothing," Draco says, feeling as if he could chirp. " _I want to suck them._ "

"Malfoy--"

"Have a good evening, Professor Potter," Draco says smoothly as he rises from the table and smiles so much during his First Year Potions' lesson the next morning that Janie McPherson from Hufflepuff bursts into anxious tears.

  


***

The first Slytherin-Gryffindor match of the season promises to be an exceptionally exciting one, not seen since... well, since the rivalry of Draco's own school years. The Slytherin Seeker, Laura Lyonis, is tiny and vicious, reminding him of a very short Pansy. He spends a few minutes with them right before they go out on the field, giving them pointers involving their elbows. Harry spots him talking to his team and hustles over to the Gryffindor players who are already lined up, waiting patiently for their opponents; he waves his hands around, talking rapidly and the Gryffindors begin to look intense.

Smiling, Draco makes his way over to the Professors' Box, smiling genially at the other Professors, who give him serene grins or wary smiles in return. He pats the bench beside him when Harry climbs up and Harry looks at him with an unreadable expression before sitting down.

"Gryffindor looks good," he lies to Harry, showing all his teeth as he smiles. Harry nods, staring at him. " _Je me souviens de comment tu t'envolais._ " Harry starts at this, because it's a whole lot warmer than anything else Draco has said to him in French, but it’s mostly because Draco _does_ remember how Harry flew. Harry was made for the air, everyone knew that, and Draco hated it and loved it and hated that he loved it.

" _I wanted to be your broom, sometimes, just between your thighs_ ," he muses, just thinking out loud, not really saying it to Harry, who makes a strangled sound and turns his whole body around to Draco, his face earnest and a little desperate.

"Look," Harry starts and then turns back to the field as Madame Hooch gives the starting whistle. Draco is pleased to see Laura instantly put those sharp little elbows to good use and Harry winces before turning back. "Look. Um."

"Yes?" Draco asks, feeling a little put out, because _surely_ Harry is going to ask him to stop muttering to him in French all the time.

"Do... I'm. Look, I'm asking if you want get something to eat, or something. One day."

"With whom?" Draco asks, because he really wants to know.

"With me," Harry says firmly and blushes. Draco blinks rapidly. "Or, if it’s better for you, we can do it in my personal quarters. Eat, I mean! Food, eat food." Harry's blush is growing deeper. A Chaser shoots over their heads and they duck, coming close together, so close that Harry's breath brushes against his cheek; Draco inhales deeply and jerks back. Everyone is standing up around them as a foul is called and Harry looks up, eyes searching the sky and tracking the players, his lashes long, dark, so thick. Draco feels that if he brushes his fingertips against them, they will come away stained as if by ink.

"Brunch," Harry decides. "We can have brunch whenever you like."

  


***

"Brunch?!" Pansy is incredulous. She is using a Nifty Notes Nib today, and it is furiously scratching beside her, hovering with the notepad right next to her new wavy hair-do. Draco lies still on the couch, not wanting to move. "Is that some sort of date? Is this a Gryffindor thing?"

"I think it is. We may never understand the ways of the Gryffindor in the wild, Pans," Draco muses. The couch settles a little, making Draco even more comfortable and he pats it with one hand gratefully. It pokes a cushion beneath his head and he sighs.

"So?" Pansy prompts. Draco refuses to look at her. "Are you going to take up the offer?"

"Maybe?" Draco tries and Pansy glowers. "Yes? Yes."

Pansy adopts her wise face. "Draco, you need to realise that there are some things that you'll never know and you'll have to let them go."

"Wait, wait." Draco sits up and stares. "Not only is that _completely_ out of context, you're paraphrasing a song to me."

"I'm sure you're wrong," Pansy hedges. Draco snaps his fingers.

"American group. Paramore. I heard them on the wireless last week, lead singer's a Muggleborn. For fuck's sake, Pans."

"Just go to the damn brunch and get your tongue down his throat," Pansy snaps, plucking the quill and the notepad out of the air and shooing him out the round door of her office.

  


***

"Oh, for--" Draco mutters when he rounds a corner and comes upon a literal wall of jeering, shouting students. He pushes, but they don't notice him until he starts removing points. "Dissanayake, Rennocks, fifty points each from Gryffindor. Clear out, get to class."

"But, _siiiir_!" the students whine in joint complaint, but they still scurry away.

Draco systematically takes fifty points from Gryffindors and five from Slytherins until most of them finally get a clue and flee; he reaches the centre to find Harry making his way from the other side, the both of them staring at each other before grabbing at the two boys scrapping it out on the floor. Draco finds himself with the Gryffindor student and gives him a little shake before releasing him to Harry, who sends the Slytherin over to him.

"What have I told you?" Harry says darkly to his student, Tate, who manages to look ashamed and defiant at the same time.

"He started it," Tate mumbles, glaring at Draco's Slytherin, who sneers.

"You don't have to finish it. Detention, in the Defence classroom, right after dinner.... well? Go on."

Tate walks off, casting glares back at a smug Murdock, who only receives a pat on the shoulder from Draco before heading off in the opposite direction. Draco gives Harry a _say something_ look; Harry only rolls his eyes.

"Alright, then," Draco says dismissively, making to stroll past him in the now student-free corridor, as casually as he possibly can; he goes still as Harry reaches out and presses a hand to his wrist, right where the material of his robes end. Harry's fingers, whether on purpose or by accident, slide a little way under his sleeve and Draco can feel his own pulse thump against the rough surface of Harry's hand.

"I thought," Harry says, looking down at his invasive hand with some measure of shock, as if it had acted without his knowledge. "You know, if you were going to say anything to me. In French. Like you've been doing all this time."

"I didn't make you any promises," Draco says heatedly. Or he tries to. Harry's hand is so very warm and _shivery_ against his wrist.

"I--I like hearing you speak it. So, you know, a promise wouldn't be half-bad."

There is a low murmur of voices coming from an adjoining corridor; students are heading to dinner, but Harry's hand only tightens a little over the bones of Draco's wrist. Draco smirks, not sure of what game they're playing, if any.

"I'll promise, if you like, Harry. _I promise to talk dirty to you in French_."

Harry releases his hand as students begin to file past them, looking at their professors curiously even as they talk in their loud, hungry voices. Harry blinks slowly at him and then nods with an even slower grin.

"Remember brunch, ok?" He turns away quickly, talking to a few students as they gravitate to him and Draco straightens his back and wades among them as well, urging them along in half-hearted waspishness.

  


***

"I am completely fucked," Draco groans from behind his hands as he lays down on the couch. Pansy's quill pauses in the air and ruffles, offended. "He touched my wrist, alright? And I wanted to hold his hand. Fucked, just simply _fucked_."

"Yes. You've said that twice in this session. No, don't write it again, you don't have to," she tells the quill and it gives a relieved quiver. "Draco, as your therapist, I will have to say that such urges are only natural after all this time of wanting Potter. As your best friend and a Slytherin, I'll have to say _eww_ and don't touch me with that hand."

"He says he likes hearing me speak in French. I'm just going to take that as a sign of my rampant irresistibility."

"He does?" Pansy looks at him carefully, as if she has just seen a particular feature of his. "You think it turns him on?"

"Therapist, not fag-hag," Draco reminds her. "Remember which hat you have on today."

She looks at him seriously, her eyes concerned behind the frames of her pretentious glasses. She had gotten them to go with her qualifications as a Mind-Healer and they really suited her face, making her look more mature.

"You know," she says, taking the quill and the notepad out of the air beside her. "When we were in school, I thought you were the bravest person I knew. Anything you wanted, you reached out and _took_ it. The world was at your mercy."

"I know what you're doing. If you're trying to goad me--"

She continued as if she couldn't hear him. "I like how you've grown up. You're quick to think and slow to act. But, sometimes, I just want the rash Draco back."

"Rash Draco got into too much trouble," Draco says, rising up and stretching, arms laced together and straight up over his head as the clock on her desk chimes at _Session's Over_!

"But Rash Draco got what he wanted," Pansy replies, accepting his kiss on the cheek before he leaves through her round door and onto the main street, head bent in thought.

  


***

The date-brunch starts awkwardly, mainly because Harry makes a terrible pot of coffee.

"When I used to make it for my relatives, I made it like shit on purpose," Harry says in embarrassment as Draco sips and gags on the burnt flavour. "It's like habit now. Sorry, sorry."

"Do you have tea? I'll have tea. I think my tongue is now trying to crawl down my throat," Draco says and Harry does that folding-in lip thing that signals when he wants to laugh out loud. Draco had told him that he'd be at Harry's private rooms at ten on Saturday and when he had arrived, Harry had been ending some sort of advisory session with some sixth-year and seventh-year Gryffindors. The students had given him surprised looks, as if professors lived in their own domains, completely caged and separate from each other until they were fed. He had drawn himself up, thankful that his height still gave him leverage over all of them and they had dashed out like firsties at his frosty glare.

Then Harry had offered him the horrible, horrible coffee.

He makes up for it now with some really nice food, though: an egg-casserole, croissants and a coffee-cake.

"This is good. Did you make these?" Draco asks and Harry shakes his head, smiling as he hands Draco a new cup and saucer with tea. His quarters are in the Gryffindor Tower, on a lower level than the student dormitories; the students need to pass the corridor to his rooms to reach where they're going. The exterior walls of his quarters are curved, because of the peculiar design of the tower, with the stairs on the interior and the rooms surrounding central core within which it rises. Harry's sitting rooms have tall, narrow windows with a reflective charm (so that one cannot be spied on by prying students on brooms); the view of the Quidditch pitch and a little sliver of the lake is quite pleasant. There are students walking and running all over the place, grouping along the stone pathways and flying idly along the pitch, dressed in their warm weekend clothes. There are shelves against a straight dividing wall, filled with photographs of friends, small trinkets and a surprising number of books. A doorway within this wall is surrounded by these shelves, opening onto a small passageway that presumably leads to his bedroom and bathroom.

The table they're sitting at now had been charmed large to accommodate the students, but now it's much smaller; they are so close together that Draco is sitting upright, rigidly, so that their knees don't touch. He can still feel Harry's warmth radiating at his leg, different from the sweet sunlight of the late November morning; it seems as if all the fine golden hairs there at his knee are electrified, standing up straight and pointing towards Harry. They're not the only things induced to pointing but Draco has nearly all his concentration focused _there_ , so that's under control. For now.

Harry has these really fancy white plates that have the Gryffindor crest in the middle of them and Draco tries to slice his cake right across the face of the lion, looking up to catch Harry biting at his bottom lip.

"I asked the house-elves. I--" that blush steals over him again and Draco thinks _for god's sake, man, you defeated a Dark Lord, harden the fuck up_ , but he doesn't say it aloud, neither in French nor English, because he likes looking at Harry’s flushed cheeks. "I asked the house-elves what you like and they gave me this."

Draco takes a big mouthful and hums in agreement before any disastrous French spills out.

"Why did you continue to talk in French to me?" Harry says softly, cutting his slice of cake. He spears the morsel on his fork and considers it. "I really like to hear it, don't get me wrong, but why won't you say what you have to say in English?"

"Maybe it will scare you," Draco says in a lofty tone, for he really doesn't have the right answer. "Maybe you're not to know."

"Why not?" Harry is looking straight at him now, eyes direct and piercing; Draco turns his head and considers the view. "Ron's right, though. You _do_ make French sound good."

Draco returns his gaze to him and Harry's smile is gentle.

"Say something in French."

"What?"

"Whatever you feel. Anything."

Draco looks down at his plate and then speaks to the lion.

" _Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point_." He stops, waiting, but he listens to Harry's breathing, and it’s slow and steady. " _I don't know how I feel about you. I don't want to know, and somehow I know already. It's fucked up_."

He looks into Harry’s face and there is a small, intense smile there, tinged with mystification. He tilts his head questioningly and Draco can’t really look away.

“That’s… that’s actually very hot,” Harry says, laughing a little. He leans forward and stares intently, his face so close that Draco can see flecks of hazel in the green of his eyes. “May I kiss you?”

“What?!” Draco squawks and Harry withdraws, blinking. Draco reaches for his tea and takes a hasty sip to cover his reflexive eagerness at this request, not looking at Harry, who appears crestfallen and a little confused.

“But all those things you say—“

“What _about_ them, Potter?” Draco snaps and stuffs some cake into his mouth, chewing angrily.

“They just… I feel like kissing you when you talk like that. You sound as if you _want_ me to kiss you, at least.”

Draco swallows, hard. “You’re very vain, I find. I could be wishing for a very slow, excruciating death for you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry argues, looking smug. “Your voice doesn’t sound that way at _all_.”

Draco glares at him, a million retorts running through his head within a second, ready to throw them at Harry and beat that insufferable look off his face.

“Go ahead,” he says, challengingly. “Kiss me, if you like.”

Without hesitation, Harry leans right forward, even getting up out of his chair a little and gives him a disappointingly quick peck, right on the lips. He sits back and grins at Draco, who scowls at him.

“That was short and painful,” he gripes, but Harry simply beams at him.

“I bet you liked it,” Harry chuckles and pours him more tea.

***

 

“Sir?” Out of the corner of his eye, Draco spots Eloise Harvey from fifth-year Hufflepuff waving her arm frantically; he sighs and flips the page of the large Potions Supplies manual he has been perusing throughout this brewing session.

“Ms. Harvey, read the instructions _again_ , and I know that you think you should dice when in reality you should slice. I personally think that if you even _pretend_ to pay attention, it just might pay off.”

“Sir, but, sir,” Eloise says excitedly. “Professor Potter is outside to see you.”

The class hums as Draco rises out of his seat and quiets down instantly as he reduces his eyes to slits and glares at them. He can see the Hufflepuffs literally vibrating with gossipy excitement in their seats, while the Ravenclaws’ eyes are wide and calculating.

“You'll be testing your own potions,” he says smoothly, heading to the door. It is slightly open and he can just see Harry’s slender frame, dressed in severe black robes just as he is, standing patiently in the corridor. “On _yourselves. Lovely_ colour on that one, Mr. Wallace, although that particular shade of puce is not quite what we’re looking for. ‘Clear’, is what I believe I have written on the board? Decant until I return.”

He closes the door on the frantic sounds of the students and leans back against it, looking at Harry with what he hopes is a chilly expression. Or, at the very least, a blank one; but Harry’s smile is coaxing a matching one out of him.

“Professor Potter, I have a _class_ ,” he says, as if Harry is completely blind. “May I help you?”

“I was wondering if you would like to eat at that French restaurant in Mayfair?” Harry says without preamble and Draco quickly casts _Muffliato_ , suspecting that half his class has their ear to the door behind him. “For dinner.”

Draco drags his eyes from their resting place: the spot where Harry’s high collar ends, revealing a delicious sliver of skin, and stares at Harry’s slight smile.

“You’re paying, you know?” he says and blinks rapidly, because he had meant to politely refuse Harry and go back into his class to poison his students with their own potion. Apparently, Harry has hidden powers of persuasion.

Harry also has a single dimple on his left cheek as he grins widely. He gives Draco a polite nod and walks off, dispelling Draco’s Privacy Charm with a wave of his hand.

Draco turns around and counts to fifteen. Then he yanks open the door and steps out of the way as students tumble to the floor.

“You first, Mr. Wallace!” Draco says with great cheer and the class groans.

 

***

 

“ _Dinner_ , whoa now.” Pansy is smirking. “He skipped lunch! Whatever does that mean?”

“It means that he wants to fatten me up,” Draco replies dryly, picking at an invisible thread on his robes as he shrugs on the couch, prone and relaxed. “I’m slimmer than he is and apparently he hates it.”

Pansy covers her mouth with her hands, snorting with unladylike laughter as the quill waits patiently beside her; for a moment, she looks as young as she did in school. They’re not much older now, but so many painful changes have worn themselves onto their faces, in the corner of their eyes and smiles.

He realises that he has not seen this girlish smile in a long time.

He smiles back slowly and her grin gets wider; they sit there for a couple of seconds, just grinning at each other until the quill gets impatient and tries to tip some ink on Pansy’s head.

 

***

 

Harry insists that Draco orders everything. He folds his hands on the very small, very intimate table in the restaurant, gaze intent as Draco rattles off everything in French and hands the menu back to their waiter. Harry is just looking at him, carefully, eyes flicking from Draco’s hair to his mouth, his ears and hands, studying him as Draco tries not to fidget.

“See anything you like?” Draco finally drawls, moving to take a sip of his water.

“What would you like my answer to be?” Harry retorts, raising dark eyebrows. Draco glowers at him.

“Hmm, from a Gryffindor? The truth, maybe.”

“Yes.” Such a simple answer, but Draco’s heart is left thudding in his chest as Harry turns his face just a little and considers him out of the corner of one eye. “Does that bother you?”

“Of course not.” Draco is filled with anxiety, though. Harry doesn’t know him, not really. Doesn’t know how he has to go to therapy every Saturday evening to clear his mind for the rest of the week, doesn’t know the depth of his feelings for him; Harry doesn’t know that he wants to say so much, but the words will only come out in another language. Harry opens his mouth to say something when they hear the owner of the restaurant give an enthusiastic cheer, (almost as loud as the one he gave to Harry when they’d arrived) greeting someone in strident French, delightedly. There are raised voices, a large group of people Apparating into the Wizarding section of the fancy eatery and Harry’s eyes widen as they gaze over Draco’s shoulder.

“Harry!” Someone has come to stand beside Draco and he turns to look. A man their age is standing there with his hands on his hips in a half-scolding manner, hair dark and caught up in a long braid, brown eyes twinkling. A short, slender man that Harry is rising quickly to greet with kisses on both cheeks. “I was going to call you when I came in! Our first match is Sunday; I will be upset with you if you don’t come. How did I know you’d be in this restaurant? You liked the one in Nice, remember?”

"Adrien Gaspard, this is Draco Malfoy,” Harry says, one hand indicating Draco sitting there and staring at them both; Adrien looks at him without interest and dips his head in a quick, indifferent greeting, before turning to Harry and berating him some more.

“Harry, if you don’t come to the game, I will hex you. We are the third in the league, have you read about it? And--” and here, he descends into rapid-fire French, hands waving expressively. Draco feels his chest close up; a heavy feeling seems to start in his stomach and go right up to his neck and he stares at Harry for so long that his eyes water and Harry is carefully not looking at him, but nodding at Adrien’s rattling speech; then Harry replies, in awfully accented French, but it is _French_ , something about Adrien’s newest lover, a married Ministry representative. Adrien puts his hand on Harry’s chest, making Draco _burn_ , and laughs merrily, before bidding him farewell and heading back to his large group, nary a word to Draco.

Harry sits back down and folds his napkin over his lap, cautious moves that are interrupted by the waiter placing their meals in front of them. They eat without a word, really just pushing the food around while Draco’s face burns.

"Well," is all Draco finally manages through that tight tube that used to be his throat. "Well."

"I... he’s my ex. The Seeker for the French National Team. I lived with him for three years, in Picardy."

"I see," Draco says, stiffly.

"No-one knew me there, so it was great," Harry continues, still looking down at his plate. "Until we broke up... so."

"So. All this time, you understood every word I've said."

Harry nods, pushing his plate away.

"You must have thought it was very _amusing_ ," Draco says, feeling so very exposed and embarrassed, snarling it all out. Harry's head snaps up, his eyes wide.

"Don't be like that. Did you hear me laughing at you?" Harry is leaning forward and glaring at him, his face so close that Draco can once again see the enchanting flecks of hazel in the green, green eyes. "What, you don't think I might feel the same way? And I thought _I_ was the blind one."

Draco had been ready to spit and snarl about Potter _lying_ to him, but he stops; and he takes a deep breath; and he thinks. The three steps that Pansy has asked him to try and employ in daily life and this is the first time he has thought to apply it.

"Which way is that?" Draco has never really felt true hope before, so he is a little unprepared for this little bubble to form inside him and loosen that tight feeling in his chest. He had given up hoping a long time ago, because it had seemed that life would really never go his way, no matter how much money or charm he threw at it. His face must be showing how he feels, because Harry's own expression seems to soften from its defensive cast and a very small smile appears.

"That I… I like you. A lot. That I'm attracted to you." Harry's gaze drops to his mouth as Draco's tongue ventures out and licks his lips nervously and he mirrors the action, seemingly without thought. "When you said those things to me, you drove me crazy."

Draco quirks an eyebrow, and feels his breathing getting shallow.

"Really?" His tone is flat because he really feels like shouting joyfully and that might seem like too much. A privacy spell goes up around them, under the command of a twitch from Harry’s wand.

“Are you afraid of something?” Harry asks, genuinely curious. “Of life? Of being, I don’t know, in love?”

“ _Je n'ai pas peur de ça_ ,” Draco mumbles, but he _is_ a little afraid, not of loving, but of being loved. He finds he can be quite unlovable; but here is Harry, favouring him with an indulgent smile.

"May I kiss you?" Harry asks suddenly, just as he did before, now leaning forward so very close and Draco sways toward him as well, almost automatically.

"Yes." Draco feels greedy, all of a sudden. What he wants is right in front of him and his therapist says he needs to reach out and just take a chance, so he is _taking_ it. Oh, God, he is taking it. "Yes."

" _Où? Où puis-je te donner un baiser?_ "

" _Ici_ ," Draco breathes, touches his cheek with one finger. Harry's lips brush where his fingers were, just a whisper of a sensation, and he pulls back, giving Draco an unsure, questioning look, which turns hungry when Draco tilts his head and touches the side of his jaw. " _Ici. Here_."

Another soft kiss against his skin and Draco touches his own mouth, his fore-finger trembling slightly against that groove above his upper lip. Harry presses his mouth against the back of Draco's fingers, gently, so that when Draco removes his hand, they are just millimetres away from each other, breath mingling as Harry tentatively rubs the side of his nose against Draco's.

" _Ici_." Draco closes that small gap and presses their mouths together decisively, feeling a thrill run down his spine as he swallows Harry's moan. Harry's mouth is fuller than his, and soft, fitting against his lips so wonderfully. He should have done this so long ago, Draco thinks wildly as their kiss deepens, ever so slowly. Harry's hands are now cupping his face, thumbs stroking comfortably against his cheekbones as he tilts their heads, changing the angle and making soft, delicious sounds in his throat. It feels so perfect, as if he had been working with a puzzle and missing a few pieces before finally finding them hidden under the box. He could sit here in this delicious-smelling restaurant forever, with their tongues exploring each other's mouths delicately.

Harry pulls away and gives him a long, solemn look, incongruous with the reddened state of his lips.

"Stop being afraid, Draco," he says quietly. "You... you can take a chance on me."

"People keep quoting songs to me," Draco marvelled, smiling slightly. "First Pansy, now you with the Abba." Harry's chuckle is warm, then his face grows serious again.

"Will you? Do you want to? Take a chance, I mean." His hands are still on Draco's face, slender and strong.

Draco pulls fully back, not being able to think with Harry's hands on him. He looks at the group of Quidditch players at their large table, watching them laugh and jostle with each other.

"Do _you_?" It's a Slytherin way of answering; fielding a question with a question, but Harry is unfazed. Draco looks at him to see him staring back mildly, a smile playing across his freshly-kissed mouth. Draco takes in his features, the black hair curling messily around his face, his skin that accepts the affects of the sun without a qualm, those big green eyes that the upper-year girls (and some of the boys) gossip about when they don't notice Draco standing behind them. Draco sighs, feeling light somehow. "Yes."

"'The heart has its reasons'," Harry says softly, touching Draco's tightly clenched hands with his own, coaxing them to relax against his, and smiling so delightedly that Draco has no choice but to smile back.

“ _Donne-moi un baiser_ ,” he demands, tilting his face for more of those intoxicating kisses and Harry complies.

 

***

Draco is making a quick patrol in the Slytherin dungeons, shivering against the cold. It is Christmas, and all the children in his House have gone home; a few students from the remaining Houses were still at breakfast this morning, sitting at one table and eating quietly together as the ceiling showed a flurry of snow, while a massive tree glowed softly in the corner.

A blue-white light suddenly appears up ahead, at the entrance to the dungeons and Draco draws his wand and pauses. It comes closer and resolves itself into a regal looking stag; Harry's Patronus. The stag trots close, feet making no sound at all on the stone floor, and looks at him carefully, bowing its bright antlered head.

"When you've finished patrolling, will you come visit me in my quarters?" the stag asks politely in Harry's voice. "I'd like to see you."

Draco grins at the stag, lowering his wand. They've been spending long Saturdays together, talking of all things. Draco had rescheduled some of his therapy sessions with Pansy and she had acquiesced without a qualm, even taking some of his sessions completely off the calendar.

"Just because I've finally _nabbed Potter_ , as you've so delicately put it, doesn't mean I don't have problems, still," Draco had grumbled as he watched the quill happily strike off some of his days with Pansy.

"No, but the majority of them are solved," Pansy said, looking as if she might cackle. "Oh, I am too good."

"I'm feeling too content to correct you on the credit for that," Draco had retorted, snuggling up on his favourite couch. "I'll just leave a hex around here, somewhere. You can walk into it later."

Now, he nods and tells the stag that yes, he'll be up in a few moments. The stag turns and runs up, Draco following more sedately behind to Harry's rooms. He stops for a moment in front of the solid door, hand pressed against his chest where the pendant Harry gave him as an early Christmas gift is hanging from a silver chain, under his robes and against his skin. A finely wrought dragon, warm and infused with protective spells. Draco had been quite charmed to receive it at breakfast this morning, with the rest of his gifts. There had been no name, but it had been wrapped in bright red paper with a Snitch darting here and there, so that there could have been no mistake.

The door to Harry's rooms opens at his touch and locks itself securely as he steps inside. The main rooms are very dark, lit only by a low fire; there is more light, still subdued and yellow, coming from the open doorway under the shelves and he enters it, finding himself in a short corridor. One of the doors is open, revealing a darkened bathroom. He turns his head and sees light escaping from under a door opposite and he pushes it open, revealing Harry sitting in the middle of a bed in a moderately appointed room, dressed in the silken robe Draco had sent as a gift, a smile creasing his face.

"Hi," Harry says almost shyly, cross-legged in the middle of the bed. His ankles are poking out of the dark-blue folds of sultry material and his eyes are shining in the candle-light. "I wonder if you remember a promise you made to me, some weeks ago."

"A promise?" Draco says, low. They've never been further than some intense kissing and touching, bringing each other to completion with their hands and lips. With the students to worry about, they've spent more time grading papers in each other's presence, planning classes and having amusing conversations about nearly everything. Draco's hands move to the collar of his robes, loosening the top buttons.

"You promised to talk dirty to me in French." Harry's eyes are fixed on Draco's hands, which are travelling down the length of his robes, as quickly as he can. "If you still want to."

" _I want you inside me_ ," Draco murmurs, blushing and Harry bites his lip, leaning back on his arms. " _I want taste you_."

Harry points his wand at Draco, muttering intently, and the rest of the black buttons on Draco's robes slide out of their snug button-holes. Harry's smile is mischievous, surprise overtaking the glint in his eyes as Draco strides over and kneels on the bed, crawling forward. Harry's legs fall apart invitingly and his hands are at Draco's shoulders, peeling away the material of the robes. Draco feels the press of sure fingers against his collarbone, and he presses his face into the crook of Harry's neck, tongue flicking out to run along the skin there, tasting soap and _Harry_.

His hands are pushing underneath Harry's robe, finding nothing but bare, warm skin, seemingly miles of it; Harry is murmuring and fumbling with his trousers and Draco has dreamt about this before, he really has, with them struggling to take all the clothes off between them, Harry's cock hard and jutting against his as his trousers and pants get yanked off by a combination of want and magic. His white, long-sleeved shirt is still on but fully unbuttoned due to Harry's enthusiastic spell, and Harry's robe is parted, slipping down one shoulder in such a sultry manner. They move and slip and gasp; yes, he has dreamt this, but it is so much better in reality.

" _I want your mouth on me_ ," he says softly, right in Harry's ear as they rut against each other and Harry moans again, arching up and flipping them over so that he is lying on top of Draco's sprawled body. He slides down, the soft fabric sliding against Draco's hypersensitive skin, and slips his mouth right over Draco's erection, suckling lightly. It's almost too much for Draco to bear, even as he goes up on his elbows and stares at Harry's dark, bobbing head, lips pursed around his cock; one of Harry's hands sliding boldly to cup and fondle his bollocks, squeezing gently as his tongue swirls around Draco's prick.

"Oh, God," he groans, head tipping back as his fingers thread through Harry's thick hair. One of Harry's hands is pressing down on his inner thigh and it moves to grip at Draco's hand on his head, squeezing the fingers, urging him to look again. Draco submits even as Harry's other hand pets insistently at his hole, slick and searching. Harry releases his cock, placing tiny kisses down the side of it, fingers slipping deeper and twisting inside Draco, causing him to writhe on the cotton sheets, gripping handfuls of it and gasping, watching as Harry places a flushed cheek against his thigh and groans in want.

" _Maintenant, maintenant, baise-moi_!" Draco pleads; Harry obeys instantly, slithering back up and hooking his hands under Draco's knees, pushing them up and apart.

"Hold on," he says and Draco grabs onto his own legs, exposing himself to Harry's pleased eye. "Keep _talking_."

Draco lets out a stream of French, _oh, yes, there_ as Harry's cock presses against the ring of puckered flesh, _deeper, deeper_ as Harry's cock tunnels within him, so slowly, painful, pleasurable, _thick_ within him; he simply degenerates into hapless groans from there as Harry pulls out and thrusts within him, his legs wrapping around Harry's hips. One of Harry's hands fumbles back and grips his knee, holding on tightly as Draco's fingers trip lightly down his back and grip onto flexing buttocks.

" _More_?" Harry whispers, between bruising kisses.

"More," Draco says in choked English. "Oh... oh, _shi_ \--" but his whole body is locking and arching, electrified, tightening and pulling Harry's own groaning orgasm out into the still candlelight.

Later, when they wake up again and Harry is on his knees, face pillowed in his arms and turned to one side, Draco's hands clenched on his hips as he moves slowly inside him, Draco hears him whisper, _Oui, oui, j'ai besoin de toi_ , and Draco bends forward and mouths _J'ai toujours été à toi_ against his back as he comes again.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> _Oui, oui, j'ai besoin de toi: Yes, Yes, I need you._   
> 
> 
>   
> _J'ai toujours été à toi: I've always belonged to you._   
> 
> 
> Additional french help was provided by tiger_iris@LJ


End file.
